The Things I Know(20)

‘What does he say?’ It seemed a little unfair to her that Grayson should be shouted at by the neighbour for something that wasn’t his fault. She couldn’t imagine living somewhere like that, especially with junkies on the top floor and shits in the lift.

‘All sorts, and I hate it. He walks towards me with his fists coiled, as if he’s expecting trouble. I listen to the Waleeds of an evening. Their lounge is below my bedroom, and I hear his kids laughing; their giggles bounce up and hit the ceiling. I like the happiness.’

‘What do you mean, you like the happiness?’ This one phrase above all others had caught in the net of her imagination.

Grayson again took his time responding. ‘I mean, I like the way they all laugh together, as if whatever they have and whatever they’re doing at that moment in time is enough. I think it must be a nice way to live – happy.’

‘Are you not happy then, Grayson?’ She was curious, knowing exactly what it felt like to wonder about the lives of other people who had what she did not.

‘I don’t know.’ He fixed his fringe and kept his eyes averted.

‘I think,’ she began cautiously, aware that, despite the ease and depth of their conversation, this man was still a guest and a stranger, ‘I think if you were happy, you’d know it.’

‘I suppose so. I try not to think about it too much. I just get through the day and then get through the night and then get through the day . . .’ He rolled his hand as if to emphasise the infinite nature of his plan. ‘Are you happy?’ he countered, looking up briefly.

‘There are happy moments in my day.’ She recalled those moments. ‘I like the first big breath I take outside, early in the morning when the rest of the world is still asleep. And I like collecting the eggs and talking to my girls and the sweep of dawn along the Severn.’

‘Daphne.’ He clicked his fingers.

‘Yep, Daphne and the others. And I like closing the door on a room that I’ve finished getting ready for new guests. So yes, little bits of happiness that I string together and they help me get through the not-so-happy bits. I guess, like you, I get through the day and then I get through the night and then I get through the day . . .’

Hitch slid the door of Big Barn to fetch the wheelbarrow with the spade, bucket and yard broom.

Grayson walked over to the dog sofa and slumped down on it. Hitch looked at the clock and figured a few minutes slacking off wouldn’t matter. She joined him and the two sat at either end, facing each other. It felt nice to have someone to slow her down, someone to waste time with.

‘I find you very easy to talk to, Thomasina.’ She got the impression that, for him, like her, this was a rare thing.

‘You too. I’m having a nice time.’

‘Me too.’ He drummed his fingers on his bony thigh. ‘My dad used to tell me it was important to find joy in the small things, as they were really the big things, and that they were what truly mattered.’

‘It’s good you remember the stuff he said.’

‘Yep, but only up until I was eight, when he left.’

‘I can’t imagine not having my Pops around.’ She thought again about the furrows of age he now sported and his deep sigh as he sat or stood, in direct response to the ache of bones which had known hard farm labour for more years than not.

‘You’re lucky.’

‘I am. How did he leave, your dad?’ She tried to imagine the man sneaking out and couldn’t decide whether a lack of a goodbye would be the very best or the very worst thing.

‘He woke me up early one morning and he was standing at the bottom of my bed. The only other time he’d done this was at Christmas to tell me that Santa had been, and I was half awake and felt really excited, like it might be Christmas and I’d forgotten, but then I noticed that his clothes looked crumpled, as if he’d slept in them, his eyes were red, as if he’d been crying, and when he kissed me goodbye, he smelled as though he hadn’t cleaned his teeth.’ He took a sharp breath. ‘And he said, “I’m sorry, Gray,” and I thought he meant he was sorry for waking me up, and I was just about to tell him it was okay, I loved seeing him any time, but then he shook his head and told me that he couldn’t do it any more.’

‘Couldn’t do what?’ she asked softly.

‘Well, he didn’t say back then, but I think he meant he couldn’t stand living with my mum any more. He told me I was a good boy and he asked me to look after her. I told him I would, even though I was too young to know what I was fully signing up for.’ He gave a small snort of laughter. ‘But I have looked after her and I think I fill a lot of the gaps in her life.’

She felt a surge of empathy at his feeling that life would be better with one or two changes, one or two simple twists of fate beyond his control. He sounded a little trapped, and this she understood more than most, touching the tip of her finger briefly to her mouth.

‘How would it be different, do you think, if your dad was in your life?’

‘I think he would have helped me more. I struggle a bit with . . . stuff.’

‘What kind of stuff?’

‘The big stuff that most people find easy. I’m a bit . . .’ He sighed. ‘Life is . . .’ Again he wrestled with the words. ‘I’m okay with the detail, so I spot the small stuff most people miss, but I miss the big stuff most people spot, if that makes any sense. It can make things difficult. It does make things difficult. I don’t usually talk about it.’